110A Piccadilly
More AU Wimsey fic. This time, a sequel to Dreams.
After listening to Churchill declare the end of the war in Europe, Peter finally took himself off to his club, and began to exert himself to sort out the mess of his financial affairs. It seemed that coming back to life again after dying only risked the subject drowning once more in a sea of paperwork, or perhaps even throwing himself off a bridge in frustration. Harriet kicked herself that she had not thought of this scenario for a novel before. It opened up such an interesting range of possibilities. Of course now the subject was for reasons of delicacy closed to her. And perhaps after all it would have been too much work to research all the legal complexities.
The situation had not been helped by the fact that Murbles, Peter's man of business, had died the previous year. Although the cagey old bird had kept meticulous records (in a fire-proof warehouse well outside of London, no less), the filing system he used had been stored only in his own head. By all accounts, the young solicitor who had taken over the practice was tearing his hair out in clumps. On Wednesday, toward the end of what had clearly been a long and trying day, Peter called her up, ostensibly to ask her to dine with him, but really to whinge. He topped it off with a strangely poignant invitation to accompany him as he opened up his flat for the first time in four years.
Harriet had only passed his threshold once, briefly, in the past. She was not quite sure what to read into his invitation. But she supposed that in the absence of Bunter, she was the next best thing. Or more precisely, the fact of Bunter's absence was what rendered her presence necessary.
In the past, Harriet had not given Peter's relations with Bunter much thought. Gentlemen's personal gentlemen were not common in the circles in which she moved, so it had not really occurred to her that the relationship was in any way unusual. But now she did think about it, and she realized that for Peter, coming back from the dead to find Bunter happily ensconced in a new life had probably been something like finding his wife married to a stranger. And this was like returning to what had formerly been the marital home. She shivered a little at the thought of how close she had been at one point to coming between the two of them.
He was waiting for her downstairs as she arrived, looking if anything more faded and worn than two days previously. His face lit up when he saw her, as if he had been expecting her to stand him up.
"Thank you for coming." he said. "I'm sorry, I hope you don't misinterpret this. But I didn't really want to go alone, and I... "
"I'm touched that you asked me, Peter."
She slid her arm through his, and they walked upstairs. He turned the key in the lock, and reached with the confidence of habit for the light switches. The air inside the flat was stale and chilly.
"Simcox - that's my agent - reports that the place is habitable, with a little work. Let's see if he was right."
He stood back to allow her enter the library. She vaguely remembered the handsome room, with low bookshelves on three sides. It looked very different now, drab, the bookshelves empty, the furniture covered in dust-jackets. She walked to the windows and drew back the curtains, coughing a little in the dust they threw up. Peter stood still in the doorway, watching her as she looked out on Green Park.
"I had the books shipped down to Duke's Denver for safe-keeping." he said, somewhat irrelevantly. "But the piano - it was just too much trouble."
She turned and noticed the baby grand, shrouded in white. He walked over, twitched off the cover, lifted the lid from the keys, and struck a note.
"Simcox must have had it tuned." He sat down and thought some moments before launching into the opening bars of a piece by Debussy.
He finished the piece, and sat with his hands in his lap, staring into the distance.
"There was a piano in the camp. I played a lot. It was a way of not having to think about anything."
For some obscure reason, it was a confidence that had weight. She wondered what he had not wanted to think about. Well of course, there were the obvious things - the daily grind of the here and now, whether or when the war would end, whether one would ever be free to go home. But there seemed to be more to it than that.
"And now, do you play to forget, or do you play to remember?" she asked.
"I don't know, Harriet." he replied uneasily, still facing the piano. "This business of adjusting oneself... It's harder to come home than I thought it would be." His tone shifted, and he continued less momentously. "We had an orchestra. Some of the men were damned good musicians." And then: "There's something not quite right with this piano. I shall have to get somebody to look into it."
He got up and motioned her to follow him through the rest of the flat. She had to admit that she was curious. The bedroom was large, and had clearly been luxuriously furnished before being packed up. But in the absence of personal possessions, it offered frustratingly few clues to the personality of the owner. The expansive bathroom was what most attracted her attention. She looked longingly at the deep tub. These days, even the ludicrously rich could not afford to wallow in a hot bath daily.
At the back of the building, there was a rabbit-warren of little rooms - kitchen, pantry, scullery, linen closets, a modest bedroom, and a small windowless room which Peter reported had been used by Bunter as a darkroom. It all looked in serviceable condition, give or take a thick layer of dust. Given his apparent reluctance to visit the flat alone, Peter was surprisingly businesslike about things, only betraying a moment of emotion in the darkroom, which he passed over with haste.
After they had investigated thoroughly, trying every light switch and turning every tap, Peter finally turned to her. They were standing in the hall, and the last fading light from the drawing room windows fell on his feet, while his face remained in shadow.
"Harriet, there's something I need to ask you," he began rather brusquely. "I trust you will answer honestly and not spare my feelings."
"You know that I will," she replied.
"Harriet - this week - the night before last - today - you are not doing this because you pity me, or because you feel you owe me anything?"
His voice was strained. She paused a moment to think about how best to express what she felt, conscious that he was expecting a serious answer, and that it was important to answer seriously to convince him.
"No, Peter." she finally replied. "It's definitely not either of those things. If I am to be completely honest with myself, I'm not quite sure of my own feelings. Perhaps after ten years, you are not the same person. But I do know this. Ten years ago, I loved you. And when I saw you again...." She shrugged impatiently. "Your hands haunted my dreams for years, Peter."
"Thank you," he answered gravely.
He pulled her close. They did not kiss, only she rested her head a long moment on his shoulder.
After listening to Churchill declare the end of the war in Europe, Peter finally took himself off to his club, and began to exert himself to sort out the mess of his financial affairs. It seemed that coming back to life again after dying only risked the subject drowning once more in a sea of paperwork, or perhaps even throwing himself off a bridge in frustration. Harriet kicked herself that she had not thought of this scenario for a novel before. It opened up such an interesting range of possibilities. Of course now the subject was for reasons of delicacy closed to her. And perhaps after all it would have been too much work to research all the legal complexities.
The situation had not been helped by the fact that Murbles, Peter's man of business, had died the previous year. Although the cagey old bird had kept meticulous records (in a fire-proof warehouse well outside of London, no less), the filing system he used had been stored only in his own head. By all accounts, the young solicitor who had taken over the practice was tearing his hair out in clumps. On Wednesday, toward the end of what had clearly been a long and trying day, Peter called her up, ostensibly to ask her to dine with him, but really to whinge. He topped it off with a strangely poignant invitation to accompany him as he opened up his flat for the first time in four years.
Harriet had only passed his threshold once, briefly, in the past. She was not quite sure what to read into his invitation. But she supposed that in the absence of Bunter, she was the next best thing. Or more precisely, the fact of Bunter's absence was what rendered her presence necessary.
In the past, Harriet had not given Peter's relations with Bunter much thought. Gentlemen's personal gentlemen were not common in the circles in which she moved, so it had not really occurred to her that the relationship was in any way unusual. But now she did think about it, and she realized that for Peter, coming back from the dead to find Bunter happily ensconced in a new life had probably been something like finding his wife married to a stranger. And this was like returning to what had formerly been the marital home. She shivered a little at the thought of how close she had been at one point to coming between the two of them.
He was waiting for her downstairs as she arrived, looking if anything more faded and worn than two days previously. His face lit up when he saw her, as if he had been expecting her to stand him up.
"Thank you for coming." he said. "I'm sorry, I hope you don't misinterpret this. But I didn't really want to go alone, and I... "
"I'm touched that you asked me, Peter."
She slid her arm through his, and they walked upstairs. He turned the key in the lock, and reached with the confidence of habit for the light switches. The air inside the flat was stale and chilly.
"Simcox - that's my agent - reports that the place is habitable, with a little work. Let's see if he was right."
He stood back to allow her enter the library. She vaguely remembered the handsome room, with low bookshelves on three sides. It looked very different now, drab, the bookshelves empty, the furniture covered in dust-jackets. She walked to the windows and drew back the curtains, coughing a little in the dust they threw up. Peter stood still in the doorway, watching her as she looked out on Green Park.
"I had the books shipped down to Duke's Denver for safe-keeping." he said, somewhat irrelevantly. "But the piano - it was just too much trouble."
She turned and noticed the baby grand, shrouded in white. He walked over, twitched off the cover, lifted the lid from the keys, and struck a note.
"Simcox must have had it tuned." He sat down and thought some moments before launching into the opening bars of a piece by Debussy.
He finished the piece, and sat with his hands in his lap, staring into the distance.
"There was a piano in the camp. I played a lot. It was a way of not having to think about anything."
For some obscure reason, it was a confidence that had weight. She wondered what he had not wanted to think about. Well of course, there were the obvious things - the daily grind of the here and now, whether or when the war would end, whether one would ever be free to go home. But there seemed to be more to it than that.
"And now, do you play to forget, or do you play to remember?" she asked.
"I don't know, Harriet." he replied uneasily, still facing the piano. "This business of adjusting oneself... It's harder to come home than I thought it would be." His tone shifted, and he continued less momentously. "We had an orchestra. Some of the men were damned good musicians." And then: "There's something not quite right with this piano. I shall have to get somebody to look into it."
He got up and motioned her to follow him through the rest of the flat. She had to admit that she was curious. The bedroom was large, and had clearly been luxuriously furnished before being packed up. But in the absence of personal possessions, it offered frustratingly few clues to the personality of the owner. The expansive bathroom was what most attracted her attention. She looked longingly at the deep tub. These days, even the ludicrously rich could not afford to wallow in a hot bath daily.
At the back of the building, there was a rabbit-warren of little rooms - kitchen, pantry, scullery, linen closets, a modest bedroom, and a small windowless room which Peter reported had been used by Bunter as a darkroom. It all looked in serviceable condition, give or take a thick layer of dust. Given his apparent reluctance to visit the flat alone, Peter was surprisingly businesslike about things, only betraying a moment of emotion in the darkroom, which he passed over with haste.
After they had investigated thoroughly, trying every light switch and turning every tap, Peter finally turned to her. They were standing in the hall, and the last fading light from the drawing room windows fell on his feet, while his face remained in shadow.
"Harriet, there's something I need to ask you," he began rather brusquely. "I trust you will answer honestly and not spare my feelings."
"You know that I will," she replied.
"Harriet - this week - the night before last - today - you are not doing this because you pity me, or because you feel you owe me anything?"
His voice was strained. She paused a moment to think about how best to express what she felt, conscious that he was expecting a serious answer, and that it was important to answer seriously to convince him.
"No, Peter." she finally replied. "It's definitely not either of those things. If I am to be completely honest with myself, I'm not quite sure of my own feelings. Perhaps after ten years, you are not the same person. But I do know this. Ten years ago, I loved you. And when I saw you again...." She shrugged impatiently. "Your hands haunted my dreams for years, Peter."
"Thank you," he answered gravely.
He pulled her close. They did not kiss, only she rested her head a long moment on his shoulder.